


crawl home

by skatzaa



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Slavery, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Pre-Star Wars: Attack of the Clones, Psychometry, mission aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27203113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatzaa/pseuds/skatzaa
Summary: The door hissed open, and there was Obi-Wan, hair still long and incredibly unflattering, beard a little longer than the last time Quinlan saw him, robe draped perfectly over his shoulders so it flared out dramatically around his legs.They stared at one another for a long second, Obi-Wan with his hands folded serenely into his sleeves, Quinlan listing sideways in his sparring position. Then Obi-Wan told him, “Quinlan Vos, you look like banthashit.”
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Quinlan Vos
Comments: 12
Kudos: 210
Collections: Fic In A Box





	crawl home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadaras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadaras/gifts).



> I really enjoy Quinlan/Obi-Wan, but this is the first time I've tried my hand at writing them!
> 
> I stole the robes headcanon from [blackkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat) ([blackkatmagic](https://blackkatmagic.tumblr.com) on tumblr), because I thought it was cute, as well as the idea that some people with psychometry can pick up flashes from people's skin (ETA: 11/13 just realized I didn't finish this sentence. Sorry!). All credit goes to her (and her awesome followers) for the idea.
> 
> Title from Hozier's Work Song, because I'm predictable like that.

Quinlan stumbled and practically fell into the cockpit of the freighter. He threw his hands out before him and landed hard enough to scrap the skin from his palms. He caught an echo— _ boots scuffing over durasteel, harsh laughter, a splatter of blood— _ before he could push himself back to his feet. 

He shuddered in the cool, regulated air of the ship. The bastards had taken his shirt, but that was fine by him. They’d been yanking him around for days now; he didn’t need to accidentally catch a fragment off his own karking clothes when his psychometry was this out of control. But the more pressing concern was his missing gloves; his shirt would be the least of his worries if he had to touch everything in a slavers’ freighter barehanded. At least he still had his shoes. He’s walked barefoot through a slavers’ fortress before, and he wasn’t looking for an opportunity to repeat the experience. 

He could rip cloth from his already fraying and tattered pants—they hadn’t bothered to hit him there often, it was too much effort to make it painful—but that would take time, and there was yelling behind him, the distant roil of angry minds. He had to get out of here now, psychometry or no.

Quinlan sat in the pilot’s chair, leaning forward to keep his bare skin off the cracked leather of the seat. His elbow brushed the arm— _ sweat sliding down scales, panting breath, fingers working under the hem— _ as he reached to cycle through the power up sequence. The visions hit him one after another, echoes of laughter, curses, countless hands reaching to do the same sequence he was—so fast he could barely process one before the next ran him down like a nexu and shook him in its teeth.

Quinlan grimaced and finished the sequence just as the angry minds spilled into the hangar, and he wrapped his hands around the controls— _ there was blood dripping down her side, she wasn’t gonna make it— _ to force the ship forward. 

It groaned and lurched out of the hangar, engines whining as they strained for full power. He pushed it into takeoff, swinging around a comms tower, and aimed for open space. There was no one behind him, no minds following too closely to indicate pursuit.

Once he broke atmo, he checked over the instrument panel and equipment, careful to keep his hands fixed on the controls. Low fuel. Shitty hyperdrive. There’s no way he’d make it to Coruscant in this bucket of bolts. He probably wouldn’t even make it to the nearest system with a major hyperspace lane, whatever that was. 

But he had to get away. There weren’t fighters in the air behind him, but that could change at any moment. 

Quinlan gritted his teeth and set a— _ her hands shook as she took the controls, shit, shit, karking shit, the boss was going to have her head for this— _ course heading out of the sector. He didn’t have the fuel for a hyperspace jump, even a short one, and he’d rather get away from here and still have control of the ship than end up dumped on his ass somewhere else without any fuel, to add insult to injury. 

His hands were shaking as he set the comm— _ a voice hissing in Bocce about a missed rendezvous, but there’s no excuses— _ to the last channel he’d heard was being used and programmed it to run the standard distress message. If there were any Jedi within range, they’d track the signal and find him. Hopefully, there wouldn’t be anyone else out here that knew the Order’s code and might come sniffing around.

Quinlan leaned back— _ a mouth, hot and wet, around him— _ and slipped into sleep.

Quinlan woke to the sound of a docking sequence cycling through, and the feeling of a familiar mind nearby.

It figured that, out of all the Jedi in all the systems in the entire galaxy, it would be  _ Obi-Wan Kenobi _ to find him. 

He pitched up and out of the chair, careful not to brush against anything. His head ached fiercely, along with all the rest of his body. Obi-Wan would have to do all the heavy lifting right now, because Quinlan sure as shit wasn’t touching anything in this hellhole ever again if he didn’t have to. He missed his gloves and his shirt and his kriffing ship that no one else had worked on in so long it no longer echoed at him.

Quinlan stumbled down the corridor towards the airlock, hoping his messed up Force connection wasn’t leading him wrong here. It felt like Obi-Wan, but for all he knew it could be pirates looking to raid a ship that was one hyperspace jump away from being dead in space. Pirates that just happened to be headed up by a ridiculously over-the-top individual who liked to pretend they were the sane one in a bunch.

He didn’t think it was pirates.

Quinlan reached the airlock just as the system beeped to indicate the cycle was complete. In a blatant misuse of the Force, he flicked up a loose piece of gravel from the floor to disengage the lock, because he really didn’t want to catch an echo off of it after everything else. His lightsaber was missing, hopefully still hidden away on his fighter but more probably in the hands of the gang that had grabbed him, but that didn’t stop him from sinking into the Force and settling into an open stance. He could fight without making skin contact, unless whoever was on the other side of the door happened to be completely naked, and his grasp on the Force wasn’t so bad after a stretch of uninterrupted sleep. 

The door hissed open, and there was Obi-Wan, hair still long and incredibly unflattering, beard a little longer than the last time Quinlan saw him, robe draped perfectly over his shoulders so it flared out dramatically around his legs.

They stared at one another for a long second, Obi-Wan with his hands folded serenely into his sleeves, Quinlan listing sideways in his sparring position. Then Obi-Wan told him, “Quinlan Vos, you look like banthashit.”

“Wonderful to see you too,” Quinlan muttered, and winced his way into standing upright. Maybe Obi-Wan had a point, but Quinlan would rather pass out first than admit it to his face.

Obi-Wan proved that he wasn’t a complete asshole by staying where he was, hands tucked into his robe’s sleeves, instead of rushing over and trying to touch Quinlan. Not that he really thought Obi-Wan would do that, but he’d had a shitty couple of days.

“Well, come on then,” Obi-Wan said, gesturing with a tilt of his head back towards his own ship. 

He didn’t need to be told twice. Quinlan moved forward and Obi-Wan stepped back, allowing him through the airlock without any chance of accidental contact. He could kiss him for that, almost, but again: no thank you. Not until he’d had a chance to eat and meditate and sleep for at least a whole cycle. And not necessarily in that order.

He could also feel Obi-Wan’s eyes lingering on the bare skin of his torso, and knew it wasn’t from desire. Obi-Wan was right; Quinlan looked—and felt—like banthashit. 

Obi-Wan took a moment to close the airlock and disengage from the slavers’ ship, then shooed Quinlan into the galley. Quinlan had never known anyone as good at shooing from a distance as Obi-Wan, not even Luminara or his own master. 

“Wait here,” Obi-Wan told him, and disappeared off into the corridor that led to the freighter’s crew quarters and cockpit. All Jedi ships were essentially the same, and it was a comfort to see the familiar small galley with its single scuffed table and booth, rather than the ostentatious  _ entertaining  _ area in the slavers’ ship. 

He didn’t bother to sit down, though, because he had no idea what Obi-Wan was doing all the way out here, or who else had been on the ship recently. Though it was smaller than the slavers’ ship had been, it was still big for one person; whatever mission Obi-Wan was—or had been—on, there was a pretty high likelihood that someone else had been through here recently enough that Quinlan would pick up an echo off of something, and he really didn’t want to deal with that now.

The vents kicked on, and cold air prickled across his skin. He shivered. Hopefully, Obi-Wan had another set of clothes for him to change into. He’d take some echoes off Obi-Wan’s clothes over another minute in the cold of space without a shirt. 

Obi-Wan returned within a minute, a second set of robes draped over one arm and something small wrapped in plastic held in one hand. He caught Quinlan’s look and shrugged a little, saying, “The Council sent me after they lost contact with you. You should be safe to sit, too; you were the last one to take the ship out last year.”

Bless him, the thoughtful bastard. 

Quinlan stepped closer and saw that the package contained a new set of gloves, the same brand he always bought because they were never handled by anything other than droids. He held out a hand and Obi-Wan ripped open the plastic, shifting the gloves so Quinlan could get them without touching the plastic—and without Obi-Wan touching the gloves themselves.

It was more of a relief than he’d like to admit as he pulled the gloves on and didn’t catch anything off of them. He was trembling, just a little, and it was the absence of stimulus that made him realize just how strung out and jittery he really was. 

Obi-Wan gave him a minute, and when Quinlan looked up, he wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were soft.

“The council really let you leave your hellion behind?” Quinlan asked, because he knew it would redirect Obi-Wan’s attention.

And it worked; Obi-Wan puffed up, offended, but then he seemed to recognize that Quinlan was winding him up, because his expression went rueful for a second before he smiled wickedly and said, “The council has faith in Anakin’s abilities. In fact, he and Aayla are on a mission of their own, currently.”

Quinlan felt the blood drain from his face as he stared at Obi-Wan. “They  _ what?” _

“Oh yes,” Obi-Wan said, and he was  _ enjoying _ this, the asshole. “I believe Mace mentioned it was of a diplomatic nature, as well?”

Quinlan closed his eyes. Obi-Wan was poking fun at him; there was no way he wasn’t. Anakin, despite his lineage consisting of Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon Jinn and karking  _ Yan Dooku,  _ was about as diplomatic as gundark, and his own padawan, though he had the utmost faith in her abilities as a senior padawan, was little better. Tholme had imparted a love of learning other cultures in Quinlan; Aayla, despite Tholme’s best efforts, didn’t share that love. She respected them, yes, but she had spent her apprenticeship wiggling her way out of lessons in order to spar as often as she could get away with.

The two of them together would undoubtedly be a disaster.

There was mirth leaking out into the Force. Quinlan opened his eyes and squinted. Obi-Wan had his lips pressed together tightly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he tried not to laugh.

“Oh kriff you,” Quinlan said, but he was smiling too. 

“Peace,” Obi-Wan said. “Mace told me they were running supplies to the Lothal temple. ‘Saber parts, a few holocrons, things of that nature. They won’t cause a diplomatic incident.”

_ Again, _ neither of them said. No one needed to be reminded of that disaster on Ebar III. 

Quinlan flexed his fingers in the gloves and eyed the robe tossed over Obi-Wan’s arm. He was still cold, but Obi-Wan’s bad habit of dropping his robes whenever he was even slightly inconvenienced meant that Quinland had picked up some  _ weird shit _ off them over the years. 

Obi-Wan caught him, again, and held it out. 

“It’s mine,” he said. “It’d never left the temple before this trip.”

Quinlan  _ would _ kiss him for that, if it were any other moment. Instead, he reached out and took the robe. Held it in his hands, gloves protecting him from catching any echoes.

Obi-Wan reached out, smooth and slow, so slow that Quinlan could dodge it if he wanted. But he could feel Obi-Wan’s intention, low and quiet in the Force, and held himself still as Obi-Wan’s hands came up to tangle in his twists. He was careful not to touch scalp, and Quinlan closed his eyes and sank into the slight tug of pressure. Obi-Wan was a bastard, but he was an attentive one at least.

He pulled back a little, Obi-Wan’s hand falling out of his hair, to pull the robe on. The sleeve brushed his arm— _ bright laughter, brushing Anakin’s hair back from his face— _ and he flinched before he’d processed what the echo was. Gentle, soft. Something happy from the temple.

Tholme had done this, when Quinlan was a padawan, and so had Aayla, though her robes were so small that it was usually a tight fit for him. Reserve a robe for  _ home, _ the temple and gentle moments, to be pulled out when Quinlan had gone too deep or soaked too long in his powers. It was the kindest thing anyone had done for him, and here was Obi-Wan, offering the same.

He pulled the robe all the way up, and— _ leaning against Lumi, arm wrapped around Quin’s back, giddy as they stumbled back from the Room of a Thousand Fountains— _ settled it around his shoulders. He reached up and pulled the hood up and over his head, low enough that it hung in front of his forehead.

Obi-Wan was watching him, hands once more tucked into his sleeves. It was to keep from touching, yes, but also to hide his nerves. 

Quinlan leaned forward, gripping Obi-Wan’s elbows with his hands, and tipped his forehead against Obi-Wan’s. The fabric from the robe’s hood was trapped— _ in the creche with the littlest younglings, a tiny mirialan cradled in his arms, sleeping peacefully, and he was overflowing with love for all of them— _ between them, saving him from any of the more graphic echoes he might get from Obi-Wan right now.

“Thank you,” he said, and his voice was hoarse to the point of whispering. He closed his eyes as Obi-Wan freed his own hands from his sleeves and came up to hold Quinlan’s shoulders, fingers digging in.

“Of course,” Obi-Wan told him, as though it was the most obvious thing in the galaxy. And maybe it was.

Quinlan tightened his grip and allowed himself, for just another moment, to hang on. 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Comments and kudos are always appreciated.


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